Narrow Straits
by Swithe-Ist
Summary: Early morning contemplation. The meagre start of a scrapped fic that would have gotten further into Henrik playing spy for Rox.


Professor John Gaskell stands in the foyer of the hospital, staring blankly at Pulses. His beady, red-rimmed eyes belie his current workload. Usual research. Paperwork. Board meetings. Juggling nosy colleagues. The whole Jac Naylor debacle topping off the ego-rending deaths of what feels like all the previous trial patients. The uncomfortable, unspoken thickness of the air around the hospital that is thicker than usual now that Sascha Levy has succumbed to months of breathing it.

Despair. Fredrik Johannsen's bequest to his father.

This was not what Gaskell had signed up for. He had come to Holby to preside over a clinical trial so ambitious, so risky... he needed absolute control over it. And the only person who could guarantee him that was the man he knew understood how he thought, who felt the same passion for medicine, who would never question his methods or motives, and who ultimately would be shattered into a million useless pieces on John's very first day.

What kind of luck was this? What god had Gaskell pissed off to deserve this? After so much planning, how could fate dare hurl that sociopathic brat in his path to ruin everything?

He blinks slowly as if coming out of a trance.

At such an early hour, only a few people mill about. Some staff coming off the night shift on their sundry ways home. A few patients. John stands out in his navy suit, still looking slick despite having spent easily a day and a half in it. He should probably do something about that soon.

After caffeine.

He steps towards the cafe, eyes flicking around idly.

"Double espresso please," he mumbles.

The sliding doors open as another suited figure strides in. The dark blob enters Gaskell's peripheral vision and a mere blink later, Henrik Hanssen is looming over him.

"Good morning, John," he says softly, glancing over at the glass display thoughtfully, "You're here early."

"Yeah. Well. Birds and worms, eh."

Hanssen seems to understand the haze his friend lingers in. Gaskell is grateful for that at least. The two of them have a lot in common – a fondness for silence, especially in trying times, is one of them. John clears his throat and thanks the barista for his drink and steps back to let Henrik order.

He doesn't envy Henrik's position either. Sascha had remained Keller's Clinical Lead for a reason after Henrik stood down as CEO. Henrik was not currently capable of handling much stress. He was getting by alright, with support, but his son had crippled him worse than John had selfishly hoped for. Now that Sascha is off on leave, Henrik is by default of seniority the Acting Clinical Lead, to be assisted by his junior staff: Dominic Copeland and the newbie Xavier Duvall.

John sips his coffee and smiles wanly at Henrik while they stand waiting.

The damage done is physical too. He can't help but notice the cragginess of Henrik's face, the creeping severity of each line in the suffuse morning light - the resonant depth of his voice, much more nasal than it used to be. His posture is no longer as taut as a predator's on the hunt, and even his dark tousled hair seems less quickened than it should.

"Roxanna called me late last night," starts Henrik, as if remembering something important, "She told me she's not feeling very well at the moment and so won't be in today."

John lifts an eyebrow. Henrik was never much of a liar, but then he wouldn't put it past Rox to act so childishly after a spat. He merely nods.

Henrik takes his coffee carefully and the two men shuffle to the lifts.

"I know we're all rather short-staffed at the moment, but if you require any assistance today, don't hesitate to ask," adds Henrik hastily. There's a disappointing look of concern forming on his face that John turns quickly away from. He prods the 'B' button. Time to snatch the last privacy he can before Nurse Harrison arrives. He listens to Henrik's barely perceptible sigh as he exits the lift.

"Later," John mumbles at length, probably too late to be heard. He's halfway down the hall. It doesn't matter. Anything to be shot of Henrik's uncomfortable gaze.

The cool air of the basement, while musty, is welcome. It contrasts nicely with the warmth radiating from his hands. John enters his lair, his eyes barely open.


End file.
